


nothing lasts forever (but this is getting good now).

by dwoht



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, college student rachel, famous singer quinn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwoht/pseuds/dwoht
Summary: Touching her feels like playing with fire, and the way Quinn nips and kisses her way down Rachel's throat reminds her of a game she used to play as a kid where she’d try and pinch out a candle flame. If she did it right, it felt like victory. If she did it wrong, she’d get burned.Kissing Quinn tastes like uncertainty, chaos, heartbreak, and the brink of something beautiful. Her lips move like she’s everything Rachel’s been waiting for, and at the same time, nothing she’s prepared to handle.OR,Rachel falls in love with Quinn. Quinn wonders if that's enough.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 24
Kudos: 80





	nothing lasts forever (but this is getting good now).

To say Rachel enjoys making coffee is an understatement. To say she enjoys working in a coffee shop is a complete lie. Still, the free beans and drinks keep her coming back, the paycheck isn’t half-bad, and she’s been known to meet a pretty girl every once in a while.

Today has _not_ been one of those days.

Every single customer has been old, rude, and managed to complain about their drink at least once. Two even had the nerve to ask if Marley could please make their drink instead of her, even though Rachel knows for a fact that Marley is physically incapable of steaming cappuccino milk correctly, and burns at least half of the espresso shots she pulls.

A beep tells her an order has come through from the register. Rachel pauses on rinsing the pitchers and squints at the screen.

_Medium latte macchiato. Sub whole milk. Short pull._

Rachel has half a mind to go over and remind Marley, for the millionth time, that every macchiato is short pull by default, but the customer awaits, so she fills a pitcher with the last of a whole milk carton and sets it steaming, while her other hand grabs a handle for the double shot.

Then she looks up.

The customer is facing the painting on the wall, with her back to Rachel. Her shoulders are held back with confidence, but there’s a certain tension in them. When she spins around, a few loose hairs seem to have managed to escape her thrown-together ponytail, and there’s a hint of a scowl set in her lips as she turns her attention to her phone.

Rachel hurries to stop the shot before it goes too long, and grabs a to-go cup for the milk. She glances up at the screen. “Order for… Quinn?”

She pours the shot over the milk and slides the cup towards the customer — Quinn, who tears her attention from her phone at the mention of her name. When she speaks, her voice is softer than Rachel would have guessed, but still flat and almost frustrated. “Thanks.”

“I — uh, of course,” Rachel flushes, rolling her eyes at the way she’s stumbling over what is usually a very routine interaction. “Sugar is on the condiment bar. Over there. I mean, if you want it. It’s up to you. Obviously.”

And then Quinn smiles, an honest-to-God smile, and while half of Rachel is thinking, _holy God, this is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in real life_ , the other half of her is trying to figure out why she looks so familiar.

Before she can put her finger on it, or cough up the courage to just ask, Quinn manages to down half the cup of coffee in one gulp, and then is out the door with a wave and toss of her ponytail.

Rachel spends the rest of her shift in a daze, not even bothered that Marley lets the steam wand spray hot milk all over the counter. She only throws her one scathing look as she’s cleaning it up. Right as she’s locking up the shop and making sure Marley’s ride is there to pick her up, it hits her.

_Holy shit_.

Her fingers fumble through her phone to the messaging app.

**Santana L. :)**

**[7:48 PM]** So, um,I think Quinn Fabray  
came into Red Rock today.

**[7:51 PM]** uh, yeah dude.  
**[7:51 PM]** [ instagram.com/sdknd285nbe3](http://instagram.com/sdknd285nbe3)

The picture is a selfie, with Quinn holding the cup right up to her pink-stained lips, and staring down the camera with almost gray-green eyes in a way that makes Rachel feel halfway to indecent. The caption reads, _Best coffee ever. Thanks for treating me well, NorCal._

**[7:53 PM]** Oh, my God.  
**[7:53 PM]** Is she visiting or?

**[7:54 PM]** I would know because…?  
**[7:54 PM]** just message her

So she does.

**lq**

_Hey, I hope this isn’t weird. I_ _work  
at the coffee shop you came t_ _o  
today & I made you your drink._

_Next time, might I suggest a trad capp?_

She really isn’t expecting a reply, and definitely isn’t prepared for Quinn to literally open the message less than a minute after it’s been sent. She lets out a completely involuntary strangled noise, and fumble-swipes to the main message page to watches the typing.

Then,

_I’d love to. Only if you_ _make it  
for me, though. :)_

Flirting? Is this flirting?

_When do you work next?_

Which is how Rachel finds herself trying to hide the tremble in her hands as she crafts what is likely the worst trad capp she’s ever made. Quinn is eyeing her with a slight smile on her lips and an almost awe-like expression in her eyes.

Pull shot. Steam milk. Shot in the bottom. One raw sugar. Swirl to dissolve. Tap milk to burst big bubbles. Swirl to disrupt the foam. Pour, in one (ideally) smooth motion, leaving a vaguely rose-looking shape on top.

“For you,” Rachel says.

“I’ve always been impressed with baristas,” Quinn muses as she picks up the mug. She raises it to her lips, and lifts it towards Rachel slightly as if to say, _Cheers_.

“Oh, it’s not that hard,” Rachel says, waving her off. “It’s just coffee.”

“Coffee is important,” Quinn says, practically insisting. Then her eyes widen almost comically, and she sets the mug down. “What kind of milk?”

“Whole?” Rachel says.

Quinn nods. “How many ounces?”

“Two,” Rachel says. “Trad capps are two shots, two ounces.”

“Excuse me for a second,” is all Quinn says, and then she’s off in the bathroom. Rachel is wondering what on Earth just happened, and has only managed to wonder whether she’s one of those crazy famous people that actually counts calories down to the ounce of milk when Quinn returns. She’s still smiling, takes another sip, and then actually moans. “So fucking good. I can tell this is going to be my regular spot.”

“Regular, huh? What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, anyway?” Rachel asks. She can practically hear Santana go, _Excuse me?_ as Quinn arches one eyebrow.

“Do you find you typically have a high success rate with that kind of pick-up line?” she asks, one hand almost comically placed on her hip.

“Oh, my God, no,” Rachel stammers out. Her face flushes, and she’s hoping Quinn is more amused than creeped out. “That wasn’t a pick-up line. I meant, like, why are you here in the Bay Area?”

“Well, I assume you know what I do…” Quinn says, arching one eyebrow. Rachel figures pretty quickly she’s alluding to her ever-successful music career, and gives her a look like, _Yeah, duh._ “I suppose I’m just taking a break. My sister lives in Mountain View, so I wanted to get a place in the area. And you?”

“I don’t live in Mountain View,” Rachel says dumbly.

Quinn just giggles. “That was me trying to ask what a girl like you is doing in a place like this.”

“Oh, right. Um, College,” Rachel says. “I go to Stanford —“

“Impressive,” Quinn says, as if her mere existence isn’t more impressive than anything Rachel will ever accomplish. She takes the final sip of the coffee and stares at the mug for a few seconds. Finally, she looks up, and her words are laced with casual vulnerability when she asks, “When do you get off?”

Apparently, even though her shift ends at nine, Quinn thinks it’s the perfect time for dinner, and while Rachel was really looking forward to sitting on her couch for three hours, she’s not about to turn down dinner with Quinn Fabray.

They settle themselves at a small French restaurant down the street from the coffee shop. Rachel sends Santana a quick text she will not be able to explain, and is still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she’s even in a position where she _could_ have turned down dinner with _Quinn Fabray_.

Quinn doesn’t seem to think it’s strange at all, and ignores the elephant in the room so much so that Rachel is starting to wonder whether she’s having a fever dream and Quinn’s career is just a product of her imagination.

“So, Rachel. Tell me, what’s your major?” Quinn asks, after a starstruck waiter manages to put their food down without dropping it.

“Oh, um, pre-med,” Rachel says, though she frowns as she says it, and as much as she dabbled in acting as a child, she doesn’t think she’s very convincing. “My father is a doctor.” 

“And that’s what you would like to do as a career?” Quinn asks, and though her tone is light, her gaze pins Rachel down as she studies her expression.

“Uh, yeah,” Rachel says, her frown deepening. “I mean, my whole life I’ve wanted to. Or, my fathers have wanted me to. Is there a difference?”

Quinn shrugs. “If you’re me, no.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Rachel says. Quinn snorts at her candor, and Rachel flushes. She continues, “I mean, if we’re being honest here, I’ve always wanted to do something music related. Not like you, no offense or anything. Musical theatre I always played around with, and honestly, I must say I’m quite good, but I don’t think it’s really all that much of an end goal for me. Not to my parents, at least. I’m really hoping to do something like music therapy. A mix between what I want, and what they want.”

“Admirable.” Quinn sits back, and Rachel is trying to figure out if it’s her turn to say something, when Quinn starts to look a little sheepish. “I suppose I always wanted to be a singer. Since I could talk, really. My parents always said my first words were actually a song lyric. I doubt that’s true, but…” she trails off.

“That’s cute,” Rachel says.

Quinn shrugs. “Yeah, well, now I’m doing it, I guess.” Rachel doesn’t say anything, and Quinn rolls her eyes, but it seems mostly directed at herself. “I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not perfect.”

“Hence the break,” Rachel guesses.

Quinn nods. “Hence the break.”

The waiter returns to offer to fill their obviously untouched water glasses, and as Quinn declines politely, Rachel wonders if she knows the kind of effect she has on other people. She deliberates whether it’s her place to ask, but before she can decide, her phone buzzes.

All she catches a glimpse of is the name ‘Finn’ before she flips her phone over and rolls her eyes, muttering something about, _Seriously?_

“Bad breakup?” Quinn asks.

“How’d you know,” Rachel says, as if the way she’s absolutely fuming just with the reminder of her ex isn’t obvious.

“Lucky guess,” Quinn says elusively. Which of course, leads Rachel down a path of wondering about _Quinn’s_ exes, because the media can’t possibly always be correct, right?

Then she realizes Quinn is waiting for her to say something, so she just sighs, hopes for the best, and says, “The _worst_ breakup. Men just… aren’t doing it anymore.”

“Tell me about it,” Quinn says airily, and Rachel tries not to let on how shocked she is. Quinn either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and just continues, “I don’t know if it’s just the fact that most men I’m around are shitty Hollywood and music types, but thank goodness there are women, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Rachel says, while her brain short-circuits. _Is this flirting?_ The notion is ridiculous, but there’s a smirk on Quinn’s lips and a glint in her eye. “Right.”

Quinn reaches for her phone and lets it lay flat on the table, leaning back and swiping through her passcode. Rachel can’t tell, but it looks like the background of her phone is a picture of the beach. Then Quinn opens an app that takes her to a screen showing a graph and a circle with a large number in it.

“You’re diabetic?” Rachel blurts out. Quinn flicks her gaze up without lifting her head and narrows her eyes. “Sorry, I just saw the Dexcom app. I was just looking because… I’m nosy.”

“Type one,” Quinn says.

“I didn’t know that,” Rachel says, before she can stop herself.

“Why would you?” Quinn asks. Rachel flushes. “Oh, right.” She almost looks disappointed, but then the moment has passed, and she pulls out an insulin pen. It occurs to Rachel that they’re both halfway through their meals already.

“You don’t dose yourself before eating?” she wonders. “Sorry, I mean, it’s none of my business. Like I said, I’m nosy. And a future doctor. Hopefully.”

“It’s okay,” Quinn laughs, swiping an alcohol swab somewhere under the table. She pauses for a moment as she preps the needle, and then says, way too casually for someone in the middle of stabbing themselves, “I pre-bolus for stuff that’s more high-glycemic, but I run low more than I run high, so for nice well-balanced meals, I bolus half-way through.”

“Huh,” Rachel says.

“One time I dosed too early, and the insulin hit me before the food did,” Quinn says. She caps the needle and puts everything back in her bag. “I went super low and I thought I was going to die.”

“Really?” Rachel knows she must look absolutely scandalized, but she can’t for the life of her figure out why Quinn is still smiling.

“I mean, I wasn’t in any danger of actually dying,” she clarifies, “it was just scary. So I play it safe and give it after I’ve had some time to process the carbs.”

Rachel doesn’t know if that’s totally safe, but she also doesn’t know enough to know that it’s _not_ , so she figures it must be if Quinn is still alive, and just shrugs. “Interesting.”

She picks at her food for a few seconds. It’s as if Quinn knows she wants to say something, because she doesn’t try and initiate a new conversation, and just watches expectantly when Rachel starts to say, “So, why’d you reply to my message?”

“On Instagram?” Quinn looks surprised.

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “You make good coffee.” Rachel must not look impressed, because she chuckles. “What do you _want_ me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says, shrugging. “I just don’t get why you’d be interested in hanging out with me, I guess.”

“Why not?” Quinn looks highly amused.

“Are you going to make me say it?” Rachel sighs. Quinn nods. Rachel rolls her eyes. “You’re rich and famous and more talented than anyone ever will be or ever has been, and I’m just a college student who works at a coffee shop.”

“You know you’re more than the things that you do, Rachel,” Quinn says. Her words are light and curious, but then she adds, “And, so am I.” Her words are weighted down with something too bitter for Rachel to place.

“Okay, yeah,” Rachel says. “Yeah, sorry.”

Then Quinn tilts her head to the side. “Though, if you _really_ want to know why I messaged you back, ever considered the fact that I’ve moved across the state? I don’t know anyone here, and from your non-stalker reaction to seeing me at your place of work, I decided you would be a nice person to get to know.”

“I think you’re cool, too,” Rachel says lamely.

Quinn shakes her head with an amused smile, but she says, “Thank you, Rachel.”

At the same time, they both seem to realize the check has been paid for, which Quinn insisted on covering, their food is done, and the waiter is looking at them every few seconds like he’s wondering if it would be rude to ask them to leave.

They’re halfway out the door when Rachel offers, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Quinn smiles. “I’d love that.”

They find themselves on campus, because Rachel doesn’t really know anywhere else, and the familiar streets help settle her nerves.

“I always wanted to go to college,” Quinn says thoughtfully.

“How old are you?” Rachel asks.

“Twenty-four,” Quinn says. The night is dark, but the slight frown on her lips is unmistakeable.

“So why don’t you?” she asks. Already, she can tell she’s opened a can of worms, and has half a mind to take it back when Quinn shrugs.

“I don’t know,” she admits. She’s looking at the ground, and her fingers twist aimlessly around her belt loops before settling in her elbows when she crosses her arms. “I’ve never really done the whole ‘school’ thing. Like, ever. Legally, I had to learn stuff, of course, but I never went to public school, never took an SAT test or anything like that.”

“Lucky you,” Rachel says, and again, immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say. “College isn’t that great. It’s fucking expensive, for one thing.”

“Isn’t it nice getting to do what you love, though?” Quinn asks curiously, as if she doesn’t know what that’s like.

“Sort of, yeah,” Rachel says, “but I’m not, so…”

“Right,” Quinn says. “What is it, anyway?”

“A music therapist?” Rachel says. Quinn nods. “You know, helping people with brain injuries relearn how to use fine motor skills with music. Stuff like that.”

“Why don’t you just… do it?” Quinn asks, pushing Rachel’s words back at her.

“Well, you know, my parents don’t really approve,” Rachel says, shrugging. “I guess if I really did it, they would support me, but they’re paying for all of this —“ she gestures to the campus she pays fifty grand to every year “— so I feel like I should respect their input.”

“Hm.” It’s a noise. Not positive or negative, just a noise Rachel can’t place.

“You don’t agree?” she guesses.

“I don’t have an opinion either way,” Quinn says honestly. “I don’t have a good relationship with my parents, so I can’t imagine what wanting to respect their wishes must be like.”

“I didn’t know that,” Rachel says, the same words from earlier coming out dumbly.

“Why would you?” Quinn says again. Then, her face falls slightly, as her eyes flash with a bit of, _Oh, right_. Rachel yawns, the long day of classes, and four hour shift at Red Rock catching up to her. Quinn’s gaze softens. “Sounds like a story for another time, hm?”

“Another time,” Rachel agrees sleepily. 

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Quinn says, even though she clearly has no idea where she’s going, and Rachel leads the way the whole time.

It’s quiet. Not silent, as they let the buzz of the nearby streets, and the chirping of the crickets wash over them, but it’s quiet. Rachel resists the urge for a full two minutes, and then gives in and sneaks a peak at Quinn.

The blonde is walking with her head tilted towards the stars, as if she’s still searching for, or has just found something, Rachel can’t decide which. She realizes that the beauty of Quinn isn’t in the Hollywood makeup or the expensive red carpet dresses, but in the wonder in her eyes, the child-like smile on her lips, and the passion in her voice.

Quinn’s lips are moving silently, and when she catches Rachel staring, there’s a twinkle in her eye when she winks.

“Who are you talking to?” Rachel teases.

“My guitar,” Quinn says. “Inspiration has struck, and I’m writing a song.”

“What?” Rachel says incredulously. “Like, right now?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate as they come up to Rachel’s car, and just says, “Can I get your number?”

The question is heavy, and Rachel knows Quinn knows what she’s really saying when she says, “Of course.”

The next morning, the first thing she does is check Quinn’s Instagram like she stalker she is. First, she notices Quinn has followed her back, which absolutely makes her heart start beating really _really_ fast because the idea of someone with eighty-two million followers following _her_ is insane.

Next, she notices Quinn has posted a new story — two, to be exact.

The first is a selfie of Quinn rubbing her eyes, with a time stamp of 2:04 AM. She looks absolutely exhausted, which is explained with the caption on the next story, _So tired, but I have to finish this song. It’s practically writing itself, and if I go to sleep it will escape my brain and fly away. So. Back to it._

The picture is of a pencil, a few sheets of paper, and a guitar covering some of the words. They’re lines of a song, obviously, some parts scratched out, others inserted or moved around with an arrow. In circles above various words are guitar chords.

Rachel tries to look at the song itself, but the guitar, pencil, and pick are very strategically placed, making it impossible to string together any kind of relevant sentence. At the bottom, however, is a whole line left uncovered.

_Please don’t be in love with someone else / please don’t have somebody waiting on you._

_ — _

**Quinn**

**[1:14 PM]** I had a really  
good time last night :)

**[1:22 PM]** I did too. I hope you’d  
be interested in hanging out again.

**[1:26 PM]** Of course.  
**[1:27 PM]** Not to sound like a loser  
but I don’t do much besides school  
and work, so I’m usually available.

**[1:28 PM]** I’m at Red Rock right now.  
The latte is good, but I think it’d  be  
better if you’d made it…

**[1:34 PM]** I’m in class!!

**[1:36 PM]** _1 Attached Image_

It’s a picture of Quinn posing with a mug and an empty chair next to her. She looks adorable, of course. Rachel heart reacts it.

**[1:47 PM]** Do you ever worry  
people will take advantage of  
you for your fame?

**[1:49 PM]** Well, now I do…

**[6:49 PM]** I would never!!!!

**[1:54 PM]** I know, it was a joke  
**[1:54 PM]** Sorry.  
**[1:55 PM]** But honestly, not really.  
My fans have never made me feel  
that way, you know?

Rachel doesn’t, but she says, _Yeah, for sure,_ anyway. Then, _Lunch tomorrow?_

They meet at Rachel’s favorite sandwich shop ever, just ten minutes off of campus.

Her brain catches on the fact that after less than a week of knowing her, it already seems so familiar to walk in and instantly start searching the room for Quinn’s face. Her heart skips a beat when she realizes it’s even more familiar to brighten upon finding it, and stretch out her arms for a hug.

“This place is absolutely amazing,” Rachel gushes, as they step up to the counter. “My treat.”

“No,” Quinn says.

“You paid for dinner!” Rachel says.

“Yeah, because _I_ invited _you_ ,” she says.

“And I invited you to this lunch, didn’t I?” Rachel says.

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Also, you know, there’s the fact that you spend an absurd amount of money on college, and I —“

“Am a millionaire?”

“I was going to say, ‘and I don’t,’” Quinn teases, “but, yes, also that.”

Rachel pauses. Then, “Fine, but only because you didn’t tip for your coffee last time you came in, so you kind of owe me.”

“I don’t use cash!” Quinn protests. “How was I supposed to know you can’t tip with a card?”

“I forgive you,” Rachel says dramatically.

If Quinn notices the other customers eyeing her, she doesn’t say anything. Each person has a healthy mix of curiosity, disbelief, and confusion, but none approach. Even the employee, who asks for Quinn’s name as if he already knows it doesn’t mention the elephant in the room.

Rachel makes a mental note to ask Quinn about it later, but she figures bringing up the public while _in_ public isn’t the best idea.She watches Quinn take a seat and start unwrapping her sandwich, with no intentional movements towards her bag or phone.

“You’re not going to test yourself?” Rachel asks, dropping into the seat next to her.

Quinn shrugs. “I know I’m low, so maybe if I don’t bolus, this will just fix it?” She gives off a vague gesture with her hands, and a shrug of her shoulders. “We’ll see.”

“Quinn.” Rachel doesn’t know a lot about type one diabetes, but she does know _some_ stuff. “I don’t think that’s healthy.”

“It’s not,” Quinn agrees. Rachel just stares at her. “What?”

“What do you mean?” Rachel wonders if this is what it’s like talking to a brick wall. “So… then don’t?”

Quinn pauses, her lower lip quivering like she’s itching to say something. Finally, she presses her mouth shut tightly, and then says, “I guess I’m just surprised you care.”

“Of course I care,” Rachel says, furrowing her eyebrows.

Quinn twists the cap off her bottle of water and smiles a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, you’re the first. How’s that feel?”

Before Rachel can stutter out any resemblance of a coherent reply, Quinn is biting into her sandwich, and, with a, “This is amazing!” the conversation ends.

The topic doesn’t get brought up again, though Rachel itches to mention it every time they do anything involving food or exercise of any kind, but she realizes she really doesn’t know Quinn… at all. It’s not her business.

And, if she’s honest, she doesn’t want to do anything to make Quinn regret their tentative friendship, which grows by the day. Regardless of whether it’s on purpose or not, Quinn seems to have learned her schedule, and apparently plans her life around it.

Every time Rachel works a shift, she can count on the blonde to come sailing through the door close to her break. She tries a new drink each time, and Rachel learns a new fact about her.

“This is a cortado,” Rachel says, sliding the little cup over. “Equal parts espresso and steamed milk, but with very little foam.”

Quinn takes a cautious sniff. “Pretty drinks like this always taste the worst.”

“Oh?” Rachel dumps the milk pitcher in the sink, tossing Quinn a grin. “This is my father's favorite, actually.”

“What’s that like?” Quinn sips from the mug hesitantly. 

“What’s what like?” The tone of the conversation has shifted slightly, and as she wipes her hands slowly on a towel, she tries to act as nonchalant as possible as she reorganizes the already perfectly organized syrup bottles.

“Being close to your family,” Quinn says.

“You’re not,” Rachel remembers.

“No,” Quinn agrees. “I haven’t spoken to them since I was nineteen, and most of that was legal business.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, because, honestly, she doesn’t know what else to offer.

“I’m better off without them,” Quinn says with a little shrug. “But, sometimes I think it would be nice to have a home to go to with people who watched me grow up. Home-cooked meals. Childhood memories. All that sappy stuff.”

“It _is_ nice,” Rachel says honestly. “And I know that I’m lucky. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was thirteen, and I know it can be rare to immediately find an amazing second family.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn says, frowning. Her eyes are furrowed, and when Rachel just shrugs, she lets off a little smile, which turns into a nibble at her lower lip as her gaze turns downcast. She downs the rest of the tiny coffee, and then, almost like a light switch, flips instantly into the charming Quinn she usually is. “Thanks for the drink. Not a hit, though.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Rachel promises.

Next time ends up being a dark chocolate orange mocha.

“Very indulgent,” Quinn observes.

“It’s a holiday special, but we carry all the ingredients year round,” Rachel says. “Eight ounces of steamed milk, steamed with unsweetened cocoa powder, poured like a latte over two shots of espresso stirred with two pumps of chocolate syrup and one pump of orange syrup.”

“Orange,” Quinn repeats distastefully.

“It’s actually really good,” Rachel says, pushing the cup over. She drums her fingers on the counter nervously, and then, tries to subtly slip in, “You should probably bolus for this, though. The syrup?”

“Okay,” Quinn agrees, which Rachel considers a win. A search in her purse produces an alcohol swab, a pen, and a needle. “You know what I really want to do?”

“No,” Rachel says.

“Go to the beach.”

“You haven’t been yet?” Rachel asks.

Quinn squints at the numbers on the needle, rotating it to the proper number, and Rachel tries to pretend like she doesn’t notice how the way the tip of her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth as she concentrates is absolutely adorable. Rachel jumps as the pen shoots air and a bit of insulin out the tip of the needle, and Quinn laughs lightly.

“The beach?” she prompts.

“Oh, right.” Quinn resumes her inspection of the drink. “I mean, I’ve been to _a_ beach, but none around here yet.”

“They’re cold,” Rachel warns.

Quinn shrugs. “I don’t mind.” A pause. “And the drink? Delicious.” 

Next up is the first iced drink, because the day is particularly warm, and Quinn looks particularly flushed when she pushes her way in. Not that Rachel notices or anything.

“Arnold palmer, but instead of black iced tea, it’s hibiscus,” Rachel says. “I also put in a couple pumps of honey syrup.”

Quinn reaches into her purse for her supplies. “Tea, huh?”

“I actually like tea more,” Rachel confesses.

“You work at a coffee shop,” Quinn deadpans.

“Yeah, where we _also_ sell tea,” Rachel says. Quinn rolls her eyes, but lets her shirt drop from where Rachel was definitely _not_ staring at the single inch of skin exposed. “Anyway, I was thinking… what are you doing this weekend?”

“Like, tomorrow?” Quinn asks. She holds up one finger as if to say, _Pause_ , and then takes a sip. “Interesting.”

“Told you,” Rachel says, even though ‘interesting’ isn’t exactly the review she was hoping for. “And, yeah, tomorrow.”

“Nothing,” Quinn says. “Unless…”

“The beach?” Rachel offers.

Quinn lets her tongue run over her bottom lip absentmindedly, and smiles. “I’d love that.”

Rachel drives, picking her up at ten, and making sure they stop at a little supermarket just off the entrance to the 101. Bread, cheese, and wine, even though Rachel already knows the sand is inevitably going to get all up in the wheel of brie.

If she starts freaking out a little bit when she realizes Quinn is probably going to sing at some point, if the guitar in the backseat is any indication, she doesn’t let on, and if she tells Quinn to pick the music for the drive because she doesn’t want to accidentally play a Quinn song, she doesn’t tell her the reason.

Quinn plays an interesting mix of Fleetwood Mac and Lizzo, which is odd, yet somehow works. She sings along softly, finger tapping the beat on her leg, or miming chord changes on an invisible fretboard. It is extremely difficult for Rachel to watch the road instead of Quinn, but they manage to get there in one piece.

“It’s _empty,_ ” Quinn says in disbelief.

“That’s why I picked this one,” Rachel says. She lays the blanket down on the sand, and the food gets spread out in the center. “Nobody ever comes here.”

“Uh, why?” Quinn says, looking oddly concerned.

“Why do you think?” Rachel says.

Quinn stares at her like she’s wondering if it’s a trick question. “Ghosts?”

“What?” Rachel laughs. Quinn shrugs, but blushes and rolls her eyes, and Rachel tries not to think about how much she’d like to kiss the tentative smile off her lips. “No, it’s because there are, like, no houses around here.”

“Oh,” Quinn says.She lays her guitar down. Her hands automatically start to reach for her phone, where Rachel knows she’ll open the Dexcom app. “Cool.”

“Thanks, by the way,” Rachel says, watching as Quinn preps her pen needle and abdomen skin.

Quinn looks up at her. “For what?”

“Getting me out here.” Her attention shifts towards the horizon line as the waves tentatively roll up to the sand. “I love the beach, but I really don’t make an effort to actually come as much as I should.”

“Well, _I_ love the beach, so if you want to continue being my friend, you’ll find yourself here quite a bit,” Quinn says through a slice of bread and a smear of goat cheese. 

“Sounds good to me,” Rachel says. Her ear catches how Quinn acts like _Rachel_ would be the one ending the friendship, but she doesn’t mention it.

“Tell me,” Quinn starts, “what’s high school like?”

“Oh, God,” Rachel mutters. Quinn laughs as she rips open an alcohol swab to clean a site on her stomach. “I mean, everyone’s experience is different. It’s either the best time, or the worst time.”

“Yours?” Quinn asks. Rachel makes a face like, _Take a guess_. “What was wrong?”

“I didn’t really have any friends,” Rachel says, “I ran a club where I was the only member, and I think I ate lunch with another human being, like, three times in the entire four years.”

“Yikes.” Quinn tops up her glass. “Why the Rachel hate?”

“I was fucking annoying,” she says. Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Like, seriously. If you think I talk too much _now_ , you wouldn’t have liked me as a teenager.”

“I think you talk just the right amount,” Quinn says carefully.

Rachel blushes and shakes her head. “Well, I appreciate that, but don’t worry; in terms of high school, you didn’t miss much.”

“Hm.” It’s a noise. Not a response, just a noise.

“You got famous young, right?” Rachel asks.

Quinn nods, and this time it’s her turn to stare at the ocean. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and there’s a slight downturn to her lips as she fixes her eyes on a rock a few feet into the surf, almost like she’s praying for something. “Yep. My parents sold me off to Disney channel, and that was that.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, though she’s not really sure she’s supposed to say that. She gives herself a pass if it’s wrong, because how to comfort your new friend that is actually world-famous hasn’t been something she’s practiced a lot.

Quinn shrugs, but it does nothing to relieve the tension in her posture. She clenches her jaw, and turns the corner of her mouth up. “It is what it is. My life could be a lot worse, but…”

“I get it.” Rachel tries to mentally coax Quinn into looking at her, and she’s rewarded with a pair of green eyes staring directly into hers.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Rachel lets her hand rest on Quinn’s for a second, and then pulls back before it all becomes too much.

Quinn just smiles, and reaches for her guitar. First up is Fleetwood Mac, of course, and Quinn’s fingers pluck at the guitar like she’s played the tune a million times. She probably has, Rachel realizes, and the way all the burdens Quinn seems to carry melt into the music is beautiful.

It almost hurts Rachel to know that not everyone will get to witness Quinn being like this. Unapologetically herself, doing something she loves, and enjoying life. Not everyone will be able to drink wine, eat goat cheese, and listen to Quinn Fabray harmonize with the crash of the ocean.

Fleetwood Mac finger picks into a percussive strum of One Direction, but Quinn doesn’t sing, she just smiles at the song, and then slows it down into a soft strumming pattern.

“ _And all I feel in my stomach is butterflies — the beautiful kind, making up for lost time, and making me feel like I just wanna know you better now,_ ” she sings, and then starts humming into a melody.

“What song is that?” Rachel asks.

Quinn lets her fingers slow to a stop, and pushes the guitar into the sand. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You wrote it?” Rachel demands. Quinn nods. “Wow.”

“It’s not even finished, it’s just a couple lines,” Quinn says dismissively.

“It’s beautiful,” Rachel says.

“So are you,” Quinn says.

Rachel rolls her eyes, but a smile fights its way onto her lips anyway. “And, so are you, if I do say so myself.”

“You have to say that,” Quinn says, flushing.

Rachel reaches out slightly, not enough to actually touch her, but so much so that it catches Quinn’s attention. She locks eyes with her. “No, I don’t.”

Quinn is silent. Her expression is almost catatonic as she settles into a small smile, and it’s almost creepy. Rachel wonders if it’s years of Hollywood and music industry shit that taught her how to turn her emotions off in that way. Again, creepy.

She reaches for her guitar, but her hand closes around air before she gets to the neck, and she shakes her head. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Please,” Rachel says. She pulls Quinn to her feet, rolling her eyes at how Quinn refuses to take off her socks, claiming the dust from the sand makes her skin dry.

They walk right along the edge of the surf so Quinn can keep her socks dry, but Rachel can let the waves lap at her feet as they come in. The water is cold, as is expected for Northern California, but it’s a welcome contrast from the persistent sun.

“I wrote my first song on the beach,” Quinn says. Rachel feels like this is one of those times where if she reminds Quinn she’s there, she’ll clam up and change the subject, so she just keeps walking. “I was twelve. I was filming something for Disney Channel, and the whole thing was set on the beach. I’d come sit on a rock and look at the water instead of going to my trailer when I wasn’t filming.”

“You didn’t start in singing?” Rachel says, though it sounds more like a question.

“No, acting,” Quinn says. “Although, I did have to sing in it. Anyway, I started writing poems, and then I realized I could write songs. And they could be about _me_. So I did.”

“That went well,” Rachel says.

Quinn lets out a little chuckle. “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to acting. The way my career is at right now, I’m in control of everything. I have a team that advises me and stuff, but at the end of the day, they work _for_ me.”

“But with acting, you’re at the mercy of the director, producer,” Rachel guesses.

Quinn nods. “I don’t know if it’s just permanent hatred of authority after what I was forced through as a kid, but I have to be able to control my own career.” She frowns. “I just have to.”

“I think it makes sense,” Rachel says.

Quinn eyes her. “Really?”

“Well, yeah,” Rachel shrugs, “not that I know what it’s like, but I would want to be in charge of my career too.” There’s a pause. Rachel tries to focus on the crash of the waves to avoid listening to the ache of her own heartbeat. Then, “So what was the song?”

“Hm?”

“That song. The first one you wrote on the beach.” Rachel tries to gauge her reaction, but, as usual, it’s impossible. Right as she thinks Quinn is going to ignore her, she starts singing.

“ _I don’t know what I want, so don’t ask me, ‘cause I’m still trying to figure it out. Don’t know what’s down this road, I’m just walking, trying to see through the rain coming down_.” Her voice is soft and sweet. A little sad, a little nostalgic. “ _Even though I’m not the only one who feels the way I do, I’m alone, on my own, and that’s all I know. I’ll be strong, I’ll be wrong, oh, but life goes on. Oh, I’m just a girl trying to find a place in this world._ ”

“You wrote that when you were twelve?” Rachel asks.

“Yeah, it sucks, right?” Quinn laughs.

“Uh, no, impressive,” Rachel says. Quinn laughs again. “I’m serious.”

“Well, thank you,” Quinn says.

“Did you ever find it?” Rachel edges closer until their shoulders almost brush.

“Find what?” Quinn asks.

“Your place in this world,” Rachel says.

Quinn shakes her head. “Not yet.”

They don’t say anything after that, which Rachel suspects Quinn is thankful for. She also suspects Quinn wouldn’t elaborate on it even if she asked. The more she gets to know her, the more she wonders if she ever truly will.

“It’s so pretty.”

When Rachel turns, Quinn’s eyes are on her, but her gaze shifts to look at the horizon behind. Rachel follows her eyes, and nods. “Yeah, it is. My parents got married on the beach, actually. Well, not this one, but _a_ beach. Anyway, every year, on their engagement anniversary, we have a beach day.”

“That’s cute,” Quinn says. Her tone isn’t condescending or dismissive, but appreciative, and almost a little melancholy.

“You’re not close with yours,” Rachel states.

Quinn shakes her head. Rachel doesn’t think she’s going to say anything at all, but then, “I’m grateful for my life. I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about money, and I know that I have a good life. But they set me up to fail. When I was a kid, they just saw me as an investment. They saw a cute face that creepy old men in Hollywood would want to watch grow up, and they took advantage of it. I’m probably going to be fucked up for life.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, because, really, what _can_ she say?

“It is what it is,” Quinn says, shrugging.

Anything resembling an adequate response dies in her throat before even reaching the tip of her tongue, but she knows she wants to cheer Quinn up, she’s upset at herself for letting the conversation go like this, she doesn’t know what to do, and then all of a sudden she’s grabbing Quinn’s hand. “C’mon.”

“What?” Quinn laughs, protesting weakly as Rachel starts tugging her along.

“We’re going in,” Rachel declares, trying not to shiver at the first feeling of the cold water lapping at her ankles.

“No, we are most definitely not,” Quinn says, pumping the brakes.

“Yes, we are,” Rachel says, fruitlessly attempting to push her hair back from the wind. “Going into the ocean with your clothes on is like, a rite of passage.”

“You’re serious?” Quinn sighs, though there’s a smile tugging at her lips, and she’s not resisting at all as Rachel leads her all the way in.

The water is cold, which Rachel knew it would be, but every time she goes swimming in the ocean, it’s always a surprise at just how actually chilling to the bone it is. “Toasty.”

“Okay,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes. But then she shrugs, sucks in a breath, and lets herself sink below the waves.

When she resurfaces, she flips her hair back much more gracefully than Rachel has ever seen anyone trying to handle wet hair do, and her eyes are wide open. There are no walls up, no impassive expressions that only Quinn can pull of so well. She’s wearing her heart on her sleeve, and her bared soul reveals nothing but joy.

“It’s kinda nice, right?” Rachel says. “I mean, it’s cold, but you kind of get used to it, and honestly, sometimes it’s actually colder to get _out_ —“

“— C’mere,” Quinn says, walking on her tip toes to close the brief gap between them. Her hands reach up to tuck Rachel’s hair behind her ears, and fall loosely around her neck. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Rachel asks.

And when Quinn says, “For the best day of my life in a very long time,” her eyes are filled with something soft and heavy and careful and curious.

So Rachel kisses her.

Her lips are soft and worried, and she nips at Rachel’s bottom lip like she’s holding on for dear life. Quinn tastes like sea salt and heartache, though it’s nothing compared to the warmth and racing heartbeat that comes along with it, and when she kisses her back as if she’s wanted it as much as Rachel has, Rachel can only hope it’s true.

** — **

Monday slams her back into reality, and into her nine in the morning class. She stops by Red Rock to pick up a coffee for her and Santana, who only agreed to take the early class because Rachel promised her coffee every single Monday, and she tries not to feel disappointed when Quinn isn’t there.

“How was the beach?” Santana says, though she’s already smirking knowingly.

“You’re welcome for the coffee,” Rachel says, taking her time to settle her stuff.

“I didn’t thank you,” Santana says. “Beach?”

“It was fun,” Rachel says. She shrugs. Santana stares her down. “Okay, fine, we kissed, I guess.”

“You’re not sure…?”

“We definitely kissed,” Rachel says, but the smile she knows is on her lips is filled with worry, and Santana picks up on it immediately.

“But?” she prompts.

“But we didn’t talk about it or anything,” Rachel says. Santana looks at her like, _So?_ “I don’t know, what if it was just a one time thing or something?”

“Then I guess you’ll find out?” Santana says. “You need to chill.”

“Stellar advice, as always,” Rachel says, and though it’s meant to be insulting, the bite fades halfway through her sentence because she knows Santana is kind of right.

“Look, I get that you’re kind of nervous about it, but you can’t change how she feels any more than you can change how you do,” Santana says. “Dwelling on it is only going to make it weird. Just go with it, see what happens. You met this girl a month ago.”

“I just really like her,” Rachel says.

The professor walks in, interrupting Santana’s attempted response, but as everyone turns to face front, her gaze softens, and she mouths, _I know._

With a casual text and an address, Quinn invites her over for dinner. Rachel accepts immediately, of course, trying not to think about the mountains of homework she was just assigned. Ignoring the call of the library and her textbooks, Rachel finds herself pulling up to Quinn’s house.

The gate is already open, and her concern for Quinn’s safety only grows when she gets a text saying, _Front door is open_. She parks as far out of the way as she can, noting how Quinn’s house is the kind with a driveway so big there aren’t actual designated parking spots.

The house itself just screams “I’m rich” in a subtle, almost humble way that is exactly how Quinn herself comes across.

The architecture and outside decoration is very modern, obviously new, with blocky sections of stone and what look like wood planks. Large windows face a backyard, where Rachel thinks she can hear the sound of a faux waterfall flowing into a pool, and every inch of technology in the home is modern and new.

A Ring doorbell, a keypad lock built into the front door, flat light switches, a smart fridge. Everything seems new and expensive, but it doesn’t feel at all like those museum-like houses Rachel has been in before.

For one thing, it’s not spotless, and the place is obviously lived in, with touches of Quinn here and there. A Grammy on the coffee table, dirty dishes in the sink, a guitar hanging on the wall, flip flops kicked off messily in the entry-way.

She finds her way from room to room easily, as the house isn’t actually that physically large, and stops just short of the doorway to what she can only describe as “the music room.” Awards line the shelves with piles and piles of records, CDs, posters. There are pencils and pens scattered everywhere, sheets of paper piled messily around the floor or pinned to the wall, two guitars, a ukulele, and a piano, where Quinn sits.

A black pen is tucked behind her ear, and a pencil is held in her hand as she plays through a series of chords. And then she begins to sing.

“ _She said, ‘let’s get out of this town and drive out of the city away from the crowds. I thought, ‘Heaven can’t help me now. Nothing lasts forever,’ but this is getting good now…_ ” the words fade into a groan as she stops playing and marks something on the paper.

“Hey.” Rachel’s tongue feels clumsy in her mouth, but she’s beginning to feel like she’s intruding on something, and she wants Quinn to know she’s there.

Quinn turns, though she doesn’t attempt to get up. “Tell me how to fix this song.”

Rachel slips onto the bench next to her. “I like it.”

“It’s fucking depressing,” Quinn says. “It was _supposed_ to be happy. Or, hopeful. I guess.”

“You’re the expert,” Rachel hums.

Quinn makes a non-committal noise, and marks something down on the paper in front of her. Her hands return to the keys, and she plays the same chords at a slightly different tempo. “ _You’ll see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night, burning this down. Someday when you leave me, I bet these memories’ll follow you around._ ”

“What’s it about?” Rachel asks.

“A relationship,” Quinn says carefully.

“An old one?” she presses, despite her better judgement. 

Quinn clenches her jaw. “No.”

“But the line, ‘someday when you leave me’?” Rachel asks.

She shrugs. “Yeah, well, everyone does.”

“I won’t,” Rachel says.

Quinn just gives her a half smile, and resumes playing. Her voice is low and husky as she carries a melody so delicate it could snap. “ _Say you’ll remember me standing in a nice dress staring at the sunset, babe. Say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your wildest dreams._ ”

“It doesn’t have to be a sad song,” she says.

Quinn sets her pencil down. “I guess we’ll see.” She shakes her hair out of the bun, and slips the hair tie onto her wrist. “I can’t do this anymore. I need a break.”

When she turns to look Rachel in the eye, Rachel suddenly realizes that she just watched _the_ Quinn Fabray writing what seems like a very personal song. Not only is it absolutely crazy she’s even in this position, the amount of trust Quinn must have for her already makes her heart melt, and her palms sweat. In the back of her mind, she hears Santana saying, _You met this girl a month ago, Berry._

Rachel nudges her shoulder with her own. “Dinner?” 

“Please,” Quinn says. “But first…” she trails off lifting Rachel’s chin slightly. Her gaze flickers down as if asking for permission, and when Rachel feels herself leaning forward, Quinn closes the gap.

The kiss is soft and sweet, not unlike the one they had on the beach, though Quinn is gentler this time. She soothes Rachel’s lips with a brush of her tongue instead of a nip from her teeth, and Rachel feels her smile into it slightly.

“Hi,” Rachel whispers, as she pulls away slightly.

Quinn lets her forehead rest gently on hers. “Hi. Now we can go eat.”

To be honest, Rachel had assumed they’d be Doordashing something, but Quinn seems to be quite the chef, and begins pulling out various ingredients from a shockingly stocked fridge. She sets a pot to boil on the stove, and moves easily around her kitchen to select various tools.

“Anything I can do?” Rachel offers.

“Sit down and relax,” is all Quinn says. She pauses over a bag of shrimp, and then says, “Also, you can check my blood sugar if you want. Phone is on the island.”

Rachel settles into a barstool, and picks up Quinn’s phone. The background is a picture of the beach from the weekend before. “Password?”

“Seven two two four three five,” Quinn ticks off.

Rachel ignores the urge to look around at what must hold an invaluable amount of information, and goes straight to the Dexcom app. “You’re a little high.”

“Number?” Quinn asks.

“One-hundred and forty-three,” Rachel says.

Quinn shakes her head. “That’s fine. It’s actually a little low, for me, but we’ll eat soon.”

Within the five minutes it’s taken to find the app and check it, Quinn’s phone has received more texts than Rachel’s had in the whole day. She has some two-hundred unread texts, sixty voicemails, and literally four-thousand unread emails.

“Your phone is busy,” Rachel observes.

“Yep,” Quinn sighs. “You know, sometimes I fantasize about just ending it all.”

“What?” Rachel’s stomach drops.

“The fame,” Quinn says, like, _Duh_. “Ending the fame.”

“Oh, right.” Rachel frowns. “Is it really that bad?”

“No,” Quinn admits, “I just wish it wasn’t such a lifestyle, you know? I wish I could leave it at the nine to five door, and be a normal person outside of it.”

“I wish you could have that too,” Rachel says.

Quinn doesn’t reply, but she offers a half-smile before turning around to face the stove again. As she begins wracking her brain for something not conversation-killing to say, Quinn speaks. “How’s school?”

Rachel groans. Quinn laughs. “It’s not as fun as I thought it would be.”

“Oh?” 

“I feel lucky to go to Stanford, of course, I know a lot of people don’t get in or can’t afford it, and I don’t take it for granted or anything, but it’s just… hard,” Rachel sighs. “In high school I was such an overachiever and always the top of my class, but at Stanford, everybody else was like that in high school, too. I’m just average.”

“You can feel lucky and grateful, and still have negative thoughts,” Quinn tells her.

Rachel smiles. “You’d know something about that, huh?”

Quinn winks. Her response is cut off by her phone ringing, and Rachel quickly passes it over. Quinn doesn’t check the screen, and just hits accept. “Hi, you’ve reached Quinn Fabray.” Her voice is almost catatonic, and Rachel shivers just slightly. She can vaguely hear the person talking on the other line, and Quinn’s face splits into a grin. “Hey! Oh, my God, I meant to call you today, but I kept forgetting. What’s up?”

The contrast between the two phone greetings is astounding, and Rachel wonders why Quinn didn’t pursue acting after Disney channel. She watches in dazed amusement as Quinn talks for a couple more minutes, and then hangs up.

“Who was that?” Rachel asks, as if it’s any of her business.

“My best friend,” Quinn says. “Mercedes. We met at a summer camp. I was like, seven — you know, _before_ — and we’ve been best friends ever since. She’s one of the only people I can really trust. I can really only name two or three.” She pauses. “I guess four now that there’s you.”

“Me?”

She shrugs. “I just have a feeling.”

Santana pops up again, taunting her from the back of her mind. _You met this girl a month ago._

Still, the reality of it doesn’t stop her from melting into the idea of Quinn trusting her so deeply, nor does it tell her to slam on the breaks when they’re lying on the couch and Quinn whispers, “Bedroom?” into the curve of her collarbone.

Instead, she lifts Quinn’s chin slightly and breathes, “Yeah.”

Quinn’s bed is just about the most comfortable thing Rachel has ever sat on, and she has half a mind to just lie down and enjoy it, until Quinn peels off her shirt and reminds her why she’s there in the first place.

Touching her feels like playing with fire, and the way Quinn nips and kisses her way down her throat reminds her of a game she used to play as a kid where she’d try and pinch out a candle flame. If she did it right, it felt like victory. If she did it wrong, she’d get burned.

Kissing Quinn tastes like uncertainty, chaos, heartbreak, and the brink of something beautiful. Her lips move like she’s everything Rachel’s been waiting for, and at the same time, nothing she’s prepared to handle.

It’s hurried, as if they’re making up for something, though Rachel doesn’t know what. Still, she lets the feeling drive her into calculated determination, whispering what she’s going to do, and then proving she knows exactly what she’s talking about.

Rachel lets her fingers wander down the back of Quinn’s spine, and down across her hip. Her intended destination is clear, and Quinn carefully folds her own hand over Rachel’s. She shakes her head ever so slightly. There’s something in her eyes, so much worry and conflict, and Rachel tries to kiss it away.

Afterwards, they lie with Rachel tucked under Quinn’s chin. The sheets are twisted haphazardly across the bed, and Quinn tugs them back up when she feels Rachel shiver slightly.

It’s silent. Not quiet, silent. Though she knows this is when they go to sleep and don’t talk about it, she rubs the back of Quinn’s hand gently with her thumb and says, “I like you, Quinn.”

“I like you, too,” she says. There’s an amused laugh linger behind her words.

Rachel shakes her head. “No, I mean, I really like you.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything. She just pressed a long kiss to the top of Rachel’s head, and squeezes her hand.

It feels like a warning.

** — **

Rachel’s eyes blink themselves open, and she lies there for a minute, basking in the hesitant brightness of the early morning. She’s at Quinn’s house. In Quinn’s room. Quinn, who she is no closer to understanding now than she was last night.

She wiggles her arm over to the side table and knocks her phone awake. It’s early, of course, and she curses her internal clock for not letting her sleep past seven in the morning. Rachel gently extracts herself from around Quinn’s arm so she doesn’t wake her, and slips on a discarded shirt from the night before.

Quinn looks more peaceful than Rachel has ever seen her. Her body holds itself tightly, like she’s tensing for something, but her eyebrows are relaxed, and there’s something so youthful about the way she curls into the pillow.

In fact, her entire self looks youthful. Remnants of a fading baby face comes through, and in another life, Rachel can picture her showing up for her first day of college with eager eyes and an overstuffed backpack.

All at once, Rachel realizes how young she is. She always felt like Quinn was so much older, possibly because of her jaded outlook on life, and her competence with dealing with parts of the world Rachel has never experienced before, but it’s suddenly apparent that she’s not actually.

She slips out the back, into a neatly trimmed yard, and a pool that ripples with the winds of the morning. Santana answers her her call immediately. “What’s up, Berry?”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, not really,” Rachel sighs, nibbling on her lower lip. “But I really like her.”

“I know,” Santana says. “But you’ve —“

“— only known her for one month, I know,” Rachel says. “Remember Lauren and Cameron, though?”

“Don’t bring up Love is Blind,” Santana huffs. A pause. Her voice softens. “Just… be careful. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Rachel says. Then, “I think she’s awake now, so I should go. I’ll see you later today.”

Rachel is greeted with the smell of coffee when she slips back into the kitchen. Quinn barely has time to say, “Check my levels?” Before Rachel is reaching for Quinn’s phone and opening the Dexcom app. Rachel watches with the same curious fascination as Quinn quickly doses herself the appropriate long-acting insulin, then pre-boluses for breakfast with her short-acting.

The ease of the what-could-be morning routine is too familiar to be as new as it actually is. Quinn tells her Google Home to play her “morning playlist,” which just seems like upbeat Fleetwood Mac, and then starts cooking breakfast. Rachel moves around the kitchen with ease. She needs direction here and there, but they both seem to know exactly what each should be doing, and where the other person is going to be, so they don’t run into each other.

_You’ve only known her for one month_.

Santana is right, of course, and Rachel figures if she can’t stop thinking about it, it’s because she’s supposed to do something about it. Which is why, when Quinn asks if she wants to go on a hike, she says, “I have to study, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Quinn shrugs.

“I’ll text you,” Rachel offers.

Quinn just smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

She spends the entire drive home wondering if Quinn meant ‘don’t worry about it’ like, ‘don’t stress, just text when you can’ or like, ‘just don’t text me at all.’

She doesn’t come to a decision, and is still wracking her brain when she pulls out her homework stuff. No decision by the time she’s finished her first assignment, and nothing when she sees the notification from Instagram that Quinn has gone live.

Against her better judgement, she opens it.

Quinn is sitting on the floor of the music room with a pen tucked behind her ear, paper on the ground in front of her, and a guitar in her hand. Rachel first notices how Quinn is wearing the exact same thing as when she left; black sweatpants, a tight fitting tank top, hair thrown into a messy bun, and no make-up. It occurs to her she never wondered whether Quinn put on an act for the public, but her heart warms to know she doesn’t.

As per usual, Quinn is playing music. The phone is propped up on something on the ground, and the comments come rolling in as Quinn starts to play. Fans trying to guess what song it is, others speculating that it’s a new one.

“ _All I know is we said ‘hello,’ and your eyes look like coming home_.” A faint smile flickers for a second in Quinn’s lips, and then fades into the next line. “ _All I know since yesterday is everything has changed._ ”

She decides it’s okay to text, and sends a quick, _I like the song_.

She knows Quinn won’t reply right away, of course, but halfway through her third page of notes, her phone buzzes.

**Quinn :)**

[ **12:07 PM]** I thought you might.

Though Santana jokes it’s actually going to kill Rachel, they manage to go three days without seeing each other. There are brief exchanges of texts here and there, but Rachel really does have to focus on school, and Quinn seems to always have something going on.

Tuesday, Rachel cracks and invites Quinn to the farmer’s market on California Avenue. They’re halfway through window shopping towards the marked off tents when someone runs up to them from across the street. It’s a girl, maybe sixteen years old, clutching a phone in both hands, and eyes wild.

“Um, hi, I’m sorry, would you mind taking a picture?” the girl’s voice is shaking slightly, and while half of Rachel wants to laugh, the other half is thinking, _Well, same._

Quinn looks absolutely delighted. “I would love to. What’s your name?”

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly. “And, oh, um, Claire.”

“Are you a singer, Claire?” Quinn asks, reaching into her purse for a Sharpie. The girl nods silently as Quinn begins scribbling on the photo thrust out at her. “Well, I can’t wait to hear what you sing.”

“When?” Claire asks.

Quinn smiles. “When you’re famous, of course.”

The girl practically jumps out of her skin with excitement, throws her arms around Quinn one last time, and then runs off. As they keep walking, Rachel glances back over at Quinn, who has a fading smile and a touch of regret in her eyes. “What?”

“I hope she never makes it,” she says.

“Hm?”

“As a singer,” Quinn clarifies. “It isn’t worth it.”

Rachel doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything, opting instead to shrug back into a different topic of conversation. “You know, you’re not really famous here.”

“Oh, thanks,” Quinn says, her words dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like _that_ ,” Rachel says. She rolls her eyes and bumps Quinn’s shoulder with her own. “I mean, that’s the first time you’ve been stopped while we’re hanging out.”

Quinn shrugs, looking around at the people who maybe let their eyes linger on her for a few seconds, but otherwise leave her alone. “California is like that. It’s in the culture to leave famous people alone, plus I dress differently.”

Rachel arches an eyebrow at the Apple watch on Quinn’s wrist, Gucci purse, and outfit that probably cost as much as Rachel’s monthly rent.

Quinn seems to get the hint, because she clarifies, “I mean, compared to red carpet and talk show attire. More stripped down. Not as much makeup. Ordinary, if you will.”

“You’re not ordinary,” Rachel says, frowning.

Quinn squeezes her hand gently, and then lets it drop. “Darling, it’s a good thing.”

The farmers market is in full swing, making it as crowded and difficult to navigate as always, but there’s music playing, high spirits, and before she can chicken out, Rachel grabs Quinn’s hand to lead her through the crowd.

Stall by stall, they eat more fruit than Rachel has probably had in the last six months combined. It almost feels like something out of a movie, but every time Quinn puckers her lips at a particularly sour berry, or widens her eyes in comical shock when the juice of a plum drips down her wrist, she just looks human.

Rachel is two bites into the strawberry and Nutella crepe they’re splitting when she mumbles, “I usheem buhvegn.”

“Sorry?” Quinn laughs.

Rachel chews and swallows. “I used to be vegan.”

Quinn looks scandalized. “Really?

Rachel nods solemnly. “It turns out California is a great state to do that, but I missed In-N-Out too much.”

Once again, a bit of human slips through as Quinn cracks a smile, and Rachel’s heart warms. “Would you like to sleep over again tonight?”

Rachel bites her lip, because the answer is, _Yes_ , but she can’t say that. “Quinn, I really want to, but I just feel like we should take things slow.” She pauses, thinking about how having sex right away kind of threw that out of the window. “Or, slow-ish, I guess. It’s not personal, I promise, I would really love to, but I don’t know.”

“I get it,” Quinn says.

“Really?” Rachel asks.

“Yes, really,” Quinn says, laughing a little. Her smile fades, and she busies herself with poking the seeds off of a slice of strawberry. “Look, everything in my life has been fast. Instant. Exciting. But maybe sometimes slower is better.”

“Yeah,” Rachel nods.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” Quinn says.

Rachel frowns. “Don’t you need a ride home?”

“Don’t you have work?” Quinn counters, arching one piercing eyebrow at her. Rachel fiddles with her fingers. “I’ll Uber.”

** — **

**Quinn :)**

**[9:58 PM]** Would you like to  
be my plus one at the Grammy’s  
next weekend?

**[10:04 PM]** Omg what

**[10:06 PM]** The Grammy Awards.  
**[10:07 PM]** It’s for music.

**Santa Ana**

**[10:07]** Omg. Quinn invited  
me to the grammys

**[10:07]** SAY MORE RIGHT NOW

**[10:08 PM]** I actually don’t think  
I can go though :( school??

**[10:09 PM]** Just drop out

**Quinn :)**

**[10:09 PM]** Rachel?

**[10:11 PM]** Sorry. yeah, I know  
what the grammys are, just can’t  
believe I just got invited  
**[10:12 PM]** I hate to say it,  
but I have an exam and I should  
probably be studying  
**[10:12 PM]** God dammit.

**[10:14 PM]** It’s okay. Maybe next time :)

Over the course of the week, performances are announced, nominations are announced, and Rachel can’t believe that she is willingly not going.

The closer the Grammy’s get, the more she regrets saying no, although the fact that this exam will be fifty percent of her total grade spikes enough fear in her that she stops herself from telling Quinn she’s changed her mind.

Quinn’s Instagram stories for the day of only makes her more jealous. A selfie with Niall Horan, an iced coffee, a boomerang of her dress that Rachel knows would probably kill her on sight if she were there in person, a photo of her sitting in her seat next to Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner, and a selfie with herself and a young man around their age.

The caption reads: _Picked up a date! @samuelevans_

_Don’t be jealous don’t be jealous don’t be jealous don’t be jealous don’t be — fuck._

“Are you going to watch the Grammy’s tonight?” Marley asks.

“What?” Rachel pauses, realizing she’s been wiping down the same bean grinder for fifteen minutes. “Oh, um, I don’t know.”

It’s decided for her, though, because arriving home rewards her with Santana already in her living room with the TV on. “Your girl is announcing an award.”

“I know,” Rachel says, ignoring the ‘your girl,’ and sliding onto the couch next to her. “Did you see her Instagram story?”

“Yeah, why?” Santana asks, not looking away from the screen.

“The thing about the date?”

Santana looks at her like she’s an idiot. “Yeah, it’s, like, a joke.”

“I guess,” Rachel mumbles.

**Quinn <3**

**[8:02 PM]** You look beautiful

She knows she won’t get a reply, but twenty minutes later her phone buzzes anyway.

**Quinn <3**

**[8:26 PM]** As do you.

**[8:26 PM]** how would you know

**[8:28 PM]** You always do.

Rachel blearily blinks her eyes open the next morning, her gaze immediately falling onto Santana’s body on the other side of the couch. She’s tucked into the armrest, but her eyes are open and she’s scrolling on her phone.

“Good morning,” she yawns.

“Hey,” she says, stretching slightly. “Did you and Quinn ever talk about being exclusive?”

“Um, not that I recall,” Rachel says, frowning. “Why?”

Santana shrugs, like, _Nothing_ , but as soon as Rachel walks into work two hours later, Marley is scampering up to her and saying, “Did you know Quinn Fabray is gay?”

“Uh…” Rachel stalls, trying to remember if Quinn is out or not, and if she isn’t, if she talked about coming out in the near future or ever.

Marley continues anyway, shoving a phone in her face. “Like, look at this.”

It’s a picture, blurry, but unmistakably Quinn. She’s dancing with another woman, and they are… close.

“Maybe they’re just friends,” Rachel shrugs. Marley snorts and rolls her eyes, but returns to starting a new batch of drip.

Rachel spends the next four hours of her shift non-stop thinking about the picture, and can’t help but wonder if she manifested something when she walks up to her car after her shift, and Quinn is leaning against the hood.

“Hey,” she says. There’s an easy smile on her face, like the one she wears for cameras, but behind it is uncertainty, and a certain fidgetiness to her feet as she shuffles in place.

“You’re back,” Rachel murmurs, throwing her arms around Quinn.

“I am,” she agrees.

“You know, my co-worker was just talking about you being gay,” Rachel says before she can stop herself. “Because of those pictures.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but her tone is filled with too much hurt, and Quinn sighs, pulling back to let her arms rest around Rachel’s neck. “We were just dancing, Rachel.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, flushing. “I know.”

“You have to come with me to the next show,” Quinn declares. “They’re so incredibly boring. I got good seats this time luckily, but…” she trails off and starts to pull away.

Rachel grabs her wrist gently, tugging her back. “Hey, come here,” she whispers. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Quinn says, sighing into Rachel’s neck.

“I’ll be on spring break soon,” Rachel promises, “and I’ll have way more free time.”

“Well, perhaps you might want to do something?” Quinn asks. Rachel arches one eyebrow, and she continues, “I haven’t been to Lake Tahoe, yet.”

“Lake Tahoe it is,” Rachel laughs. “I know of a good AirBnB not too far from some good hikes.”

“Let me,” Quinn says.

“What?” Rachel says.

“I’ll take care of it,” Quinn assures her.

Rachel frowns. “I don’t want to take advantage of you or anything.”

“You’re not if I’m offering,” Quinn says. She smiles. “I want to do something nice for you, okay? Not to mention, it was my idea.”

“Well, okay,” Rachel allows. 

Their reunion is short-lived after Rachel remembers she actually has class that day, but Quinn promises to text her, and Rachel promises to answer.

Is it a little weird to know the truth about the daily rumor mill that happens to be Quinn Fabray today? Sure. Does it slightly amuse her to hear all the outlandish things people genuinely believe about her? Yes.

As much as she finds herself missing — no, craving — Quinn’s presence, which she should absolutely laugh at herself for, she gets through the day by sending Quinn some of the worst conspiracy theories about her, one if which is that she’s the daughter of Ringo Starr.

The answering text from Quinn to come over after school isn’t out of the ordinary in the slightest, nor is the slight trafficked drive, nor is the gate already open for her, nor is the light on the porch. Quinn is bustling around the kitchen, which is a little strange, but not too alarming.

What _is_ odd is how Rachel notices that Quinn isn’t actually really accomplishing anything. She’ll pick up a pot with concentrated urgency, only to walk it across the room and set it down in a random place. She washes her hands about three times within the first five minutes of Rachel being there, and for the later hour, she’s oddly energetic.

“You okay?” Rachel asks.

Quinn laughs, “Of course. Do you want anything to drink?”

“I’m okay,” Rachel says, frowning slightly as she sits down.

Quinn takes a few steps into her, offering a kiss and not noticing how Rachel doesn’t reciprocate. “Everything is fine, don’t worry about it, okay? Do you want a drink?”

“I’m okay,” Rachel says again. She hesitantly grabs for Quinn’s phone, unlocking it and going straight to the Dexcom app. She’s high, there’s no doubt about that, but she’d be showing other signs if it was blood sugar.

“Dinner?” Quinn says, cutting her out of her thoughts.

“Um, yeah,” Rachel says. She narrows her eyebrows at Quinn’s blown pupils. Her mind starts drifting, and she begins wondering… _No. That would be crazy_. Then again, so is the situation. Hesitantly, she asks, “Quinn, are you on drugs?”

Quinn halts. Then nods. “Yes.” She smiles. “I forgot you’re a doctor.”

“Future doctor,” Rachel says. Then she shakes her head as the words catch up to her. “Wait, actually?”

“Actually, what?” she asks.

“Quinn,” Rachel says. “Drugs.”

“Oh, yes,” Quinn says. “Cocaine.”

“You’re kidding,” Rachel says. Her heart starts pounding, though not as fast as Quinn’s must be, and a part of her wants to cry.

“It’s okay,” Quinn says, furrowing her eyebrows with so much genuine confusion that Rachel wonders if she has ever had anyone actually care about her before.

“It’s — it’s not —“ she stammers.

Quinn sighs, reaching out for Rachel’s hand, and frowning when she pulls away. “Come sit, please.”

“Quinn…”

“Please,” she repeats. Her hands are still fidgeting with nothing, and her eyes are wild and unfocused, but behind that sits tense body language and pleading words, so Rachel obliges.

“I’m listening,” Rachel says, sliding onto the opposite end of the couch.

Quinn takes a deep breath, as if trying to collect her thoughts, and then begins speaking. “I was eleven when I had my first experience with drugs. I was on the set for this stupid romantic comedy. It was about this guy who breaks up with his high school sweetheart to become a famous musician, and then tries to come back for her, and then finds out that she has a kid, and then finds out that the kid is _his_ , and, well, I played the kid.”

“Is that… important?” Rachel asks.

Quinn frowns. “No, sorry. Anyway, we did all these late night shoots, and I was always sleepy because I was, you know, eleven, so my mom made me take stimulants to stay awake. Nothing crazy, just Adderall, Ritalin. But then I’d be energized from that, so she gave me sleeping pills and Xanax to go to sleep. Then I was overly sleepy, so more Adderall.”

“That’s horrible,” Rachel says.

The shrug Quinn gives her is quite possibly even more heartbreaking than the story itself, but then she continues. “When I was older, like thirteen or fourteen, I started going to Hollywood parties. I was told to do whatever to be social and fit in, so I ended up having to mess around with harder drugs. I mean, when Kanye West tells you he wants to smoke with you, and you want a music career, you do it, ya know?”

Rachel shakes her head. “What do you mean, ‘harder’?”

“Cocaine, ecstasy, basic stuff like that,” Quinn says. “Again, nothing crazy.”

Rachel doesn’t say that anything stronger than Advil is crazy to her, and that her only experience with drugs was smoking weed with Santana once. She also doesn’t say that she got scared and vowed never to do it again.

“It’s not safe for you,” Rachel says.

“Drugs are safe for anyone?” Quinn says, her mouth quirking up into a crooked smile.

“You’re diabetic, Quinn. It’s different,” Rachel says. Quinn frowns, and gives a little nod. “There’s the worry of ketoacidosis and all the —“

“Look, I’m not addicted,” Quinn says. She manages to read Rachel’s expression correctly, because she huffs. “I’m not! It’s just, it became a habit, and now when the world is just too much, or I’m too tired, or I’m too awake, or I just want everything to stop for a second…” she trails off.

“I don’t know what to say,” Rachel admits, barely able to wrap her mind around it, let alone speak.

“This is why I didn’t want to make it official,” Quinn says, frowning.

“What?” Rachel says.

She gestures. “Us. There are parts of me I knew you wouldn’t like. Parts of me I knew you wouldn’t want in a girlfriend. Parts of me you wouldn’t — no, _couldn’t_ love.”

Rachel sighs, grasping Quinn’s hands in her own, and feeling her heart break again at the way her fingers cling to hers. “It’s not your fault. I get it, it was the product of… less than ideal circumstances. But you need to stop.”

There’s a heavy silence that says everything Rachel doesn’t want to hear, but she waits anyway. The seconds tick on, ten at most, but each one is like a punch to the gut.

Finally, Quinn speaks. “I can’t promise you that.”

She itches to run, but behind the stubborn set of Quinn’s jaw is fear. Instead, she drops Quinn’s hands, not missing the way Quinn’s fingers seem to claw at hers as if holding on for dear life. Rachel takes a deep breath, wondering if it’s possible to suffocate in a room full of air.

“Then, I can’t be with you,” she says.

Quinn swallows, a hard set to her jaw. “Of course.”

“I care about you —“

“Don’t say that,” Quinn snaps.

“I do,” Rachel protests, rising to meet Quinn’s standing figure.

“No, you care about the _idea_ of me,” Quinn accuses. Her eyes are piercing, though unfocused, and her fingers tremble as she gestures wildly around. “You thought it would be cool to become friends with Quinn Fabray, childhood actress and famous singer. For what, an anecdote at dinner parties? Free stuff? Ten minutes of fame?”

“Quinn, of course not,” Rachel says. She feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes, and grinds her teeth angrily at the fact that she always cries when she’s any kind of upset.

“You wanted to become friends with me for who knows what, but when I turned out to be less than perfect, less than what you expected, you’re just done with me?” Quinn scoffs. “Of course. It’s not surprising. I should have known better than to befriend some random college student yearning for the most exciting thing her life will ever bring her.”

Rachel opens her mouth, but knows if she says anything she’ll probably just start crying. She just shakes her head. _No. No. No._

Quinn nods, swaying slightly in place. “Right. Well, I’m going out. Don’t be here when I get back.”

And then she’s gone.

The next two weeks are some of the worst of Rachel’s life.

She’s not really in the mood for Santana to tell her, ‘I told you so,’ so she keeps her mouth shut about the fact that it’s highly possible Quinn will never speak to her again, and tries to figure out why on Earth she’s so caught up on a woman she’s known for maybe a few months at most.

It seems like every day she opens her Messages to text Quinn, but nothing ever seems to sound right.

_Hey, can we just forget that I found out you do cocaine? Lunch?_

No. Absolutely not.

_I miss you._

True. True, but desperate.

_I’m here for you._

Sappy. Stupid.

In the end, she doesn’t send anything at all, because she doesn’t want Quinn to block her. Instead, she just fingernail chews her way through two weeks of absolute silence on the other end.

Silence in text messages, that is. Quinn is active as ever on social media. Posting daily, stories of her at the beach, at parties, writing music. She goes live six times, which Rachel forces herself to ignore, until she gets the notification that Quinn is going live right as she’s staring at their old text messages, and her resolve breaks.

The video already has fifty-thousand people watching, and the numbers grow by the second. Quinn is paying no attention, and has the camera propped up in front of her while she finger plucks at a guitar.

She looks like… Quinn.

No make-up. Leggings and an oversized t-shirt, hair down. She looks beautiful, of course, but most of all, she looks like herself.

And then she starts to play.

The absentminded finger-picking turns into a melody, which turns into slow strumming, which turns into singing.

“ _I’ve been having a hard time adjusting. I had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting. I didn’t know if you’d care if I came back; I have a lot of regrets about that,_ ” she sings. Softly, sweetly. “ _Pulled my car off the road to the lookout. I could have followed my fears on the way down, and maybe I don’t quite know what to say, but I’m here in your doorway. I just wanted you to know that this is me trying._ ”

Rachel’s breath catches, and she lets herself inhale for the first time in what feels like a minute. The comments are going crazy with “geez, this is depressing” and “is Quinn okay?” and a bunch of crying emojis, and Rachel pretty much agrees with all of them.

“ _They told me all of my cages were mental, so I got wasted like all my potential_.” Quinn’s eyebrows furrow, and she looks directly into the camera, as if she knows Rachel is watching. “ _And my words shoot to kill when I’m mad. I have a lot of regrets about that._ ”

It’s undeniable now that the song is for her, but Rachel still can’t figure out whether this is a suicide note, a breakup song, or an apology.

“ _I was so ahead of the curve the curve became a sphere — I fell behind on my classmates, then I ended up here. Pouring out my heart to a stranger, but I didn’t pour the whiskey. I just wanted you to know that this is me trying_ ,” Quinn hums. When she opens her mouth next, it’s like a cry and a plea and a prayer all at once when she sings, “ _At least I’m trying_.”

Without even thinking, Rachel stands up, grabbing her keys and her drivers license and heading out the door. She still has the live pulled up, but she has decided that whatever Quinn’s intent with the song is, she has to find out in person.

“ _And it’s hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound. It’s hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you_ ,” Quinn shrugs. “ _You’re a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in my town, and I just wanted you to know that this is me trying — and maybe I don’t quite know what to say._ ”

Quinn continues singing, but the whole thing is background noise as Rachel tears off through the night towards Quinn’s house.

Not only is she driving without her seatbelt on, she’s speeding, _and_ she has her phone open. It might well be the most laws she’s ever broken at once, but as Quinn’s voice filters in with, “ _At least I’m trying_ ,” again, she decides she doesn’t care.

The live has ended by the time Rachel rolls up to Quinn’s house. The gate is open, and Rachel doesn’t know if that means Quinn knew she would come, or doesn’t care about intruders anymore. She doesn’t have time to think about it because if she thinks she knows she’ll get scared and drive away.

Instead, she walks up to the door and knocks.

And then again.

And then again.

And then the door opens.

“I don’t quite know what to say, but I’m here in your doorway,” Rachel offers. It’s a bad joke. Rachel isn’t even sure if it _is_ a joke.

Quinn looks confused, though not at all surprised to see her. “Rachel, I —“

“My uncle struggled with addiction,” she says. Quinn opens her mouth, and Rachel shakes her head. “I know, I know. You’re not addicted. But he _was_. First alcohol, then real hard drugs. We spent a year pretending we didn’t know where all the money was going, and months cleaning up after him. And guess what?”

Quinn whispers something that might be, _What?_ , but her tone is hoarse, and barely any sound comes out.

“Well, he _also_ wasn’t addicted.” Rachel pauses. “Or so he said. When he overdosed for the second time, we had to kick him out.”

“Where is he now?” Quinn asks quietly.

“Dead,” Rachel says. A lump settles in her throat, but she swallows it down. “He died three years ago from yet another overdose.”

“I’m sorry, but I —“

“You might not be addicted now, Quinn, but that doesn’t mean you will never be,” Rachel says. There’s just a bit too much bite to her tone, but she continues anyway. “I will not spend one more day offering all the love and fear and kindness I have into taking care of somebody who refuses to believe that they’re sucking it out of me.” She shrugs. “You’re right; I won’t do it. I _can’t_ do it.”

And then it’s silent, and Rachel is thinking that Quinn is going to yell at her again, which she really won’t be able to handle, but then Quinn hangs her head. 

“I told you I can’t promise to stop completely,” Quinn says, looking down at her hands. “And that’s true. I really am _not_ addicted, but I think I’ll always have a vice. Is that so wrong?”

“It is when you’re dependent on it,” Rachel says. “And it’s, you know, illegal.”

Quinn bites her lip. “I’m going back to therapy.” She exhales into a roll of her eyes and a shaky laugh. “God knows I need it. And I think it will help with… you know — keeping the world quiet, teaching me to let it keep spinning.”

“That’s great,” Rachel says. _But…_

“Look,” Quinn says, bringing her gaze up to meet Rachel’s. “I’m not going to make you promises I can’t promise to keep. But I — I really like you. You might be one of the only good things in my life practically ever, and I don’t want to lose you. I _can’t_ lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Rachel says quietly.

“This is a dealbreaker to you,” Quinn says. It’s a statement, not a question, but Rachel nods anyway. “Then I promise to try.” She pauses, then blinks furiously. “I promise to try.”

Rachel takes a deep breath, exhaling a lot more shakily than she’d intended. “That’s all I can really ask for.”

“Come in,” Quinn says softly. She folds Rachel’s hand into her own and brings her through the house that has grown so familiar already. They stop in the music room, where Quinn all but forces Rachel onto a bean bag. She doesn’t say anything, just picks up a guitar. “I’m writing a new song.”

“Yeah?” Rachel says.

“My friend taught me a knew picking technique,” she says. Then she pauses. “Do you know him? Sam Evans?”

“The singer?” Rachel laughs. She nods slightly. “Yes, I know him.”

Quinn begins to play a gentle pattern of strumming and picking with her thumb. It’s soft and almost hopeful, though Rachel fears she may be projecting a little too much. “ _I remember every look upon your face — the way you roll your eyes, the way you taste. You make it hard for breathing._ ” She takes in a shuddering breath, and looks down at the floor. “ _’Cause when I close my eyes and drift away, I think of you and everything’s okay. I’m finally now believing maybe it’s true that I can’t live without you_.” She meets Rachel’s eyes sheepishly. “That’s all I have so far.”

“You don’t have to live without me,” is all she says. “It’s the two of us now.”

“ _Well, maybe two is better than one_ ,” she sings. She pauses with her right hand quieting the strings. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s okay,” Rachel says, though they both know it’s not.

Quinn sighs. “Sometimes I think my life is over already. Like, I’ll die in five years anyway, and right now I’m just… just killing time.”

“Quinn,” Rachel says. She shakes her head. “You’re young.”

“I know,” Quinn says, “but I’ve spent my whole life building up walls and shutting people out. Mercedes is the only person who knows anything real about me, and my mind is so fucked up from my shitty parents and shitty childhood, and I don’t know if I can ever come back from that.”

“You’re young,” Rachel says again, because what _can_ she say? “You have me now. Nothing is irreversible. And the fact that I fell in love with you despite the fact that you think these things proves you’re not lost.”

“You love me?” Quinn says. Rachel flushes. Quinn just smiles and keeps playing. “ _There’s so much time to figure out the rest of my life, and you’ve already got me coming undone. And I’m thinking two is better than one._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> quinnfebrey on tumblr. come chat!


End file.
